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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079257">Please Don't Go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej'>Arej</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(also sort of), (sort of), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Holding Hands, Idiots in Love, Kisses, M/M, Other, Relationship Discussions, also maybe a proposal, but he's managing it well, i have a problem lol, surprise! they moved in together only crowley doesn't know it yet, they have a conversation about two months later than they should but that's better than never, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:40:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe honeymoon periods aren't just for humans - or maybe they are.</p>
<p>Or, Crowley wants to make sure he isn't crowding Aziraphale, but the angel has other plans.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>278</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Please Don't Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/katterv/gifts">katterv</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> This was inspired by the absolutely incredible art on Tumblr by the incomparable tervaneula, aka katterv, <a href="https://tervaneula.tumblr.com/post/615570640060235776"> here</a>.</p>
  <p>I promise you, those images are lodged in my soul, and will live with me until my final days.</p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time it happens, Crowley doesn’t even realize.</p>
<p>He’s spent the past three days at the bookshop, lounging on various perches - in the front window, as a tiny snake, for the delicious sunlight; in the cool shadows of the stacks, as a much larger snake, for the delightful screams of surprise from startled browsers (and the much more satisfying smile in Aziraphale’s voice when he pretends to chide); in the back room, as a snake poured into the skin of a person, for the company. He’s even nodded off once or twice draped across the overstuffed sofa, lulled to sleep by good wine and better conversation, awakening hours later to find himself bundled under a soft throw with only a hint of tartan, faint enough that he can pretend to have missed it, faint enough that he doesn’t have to put up the perfunctory fuss.</p>
<p>Faint enough that he doesn’t have to admit it’s his favorite, tartan be damned. It’s soft and it’s warm and it smells like Aziraphale, and he’d put up with the tartan in Technicolor if he had to, if it meant he kept waking up with his senses overwhelmed by angel.</p>
<p>(One angel. Not - not angel in abstract, the species as a whole, but one very specific angel. <em>The</em> angel, the only one that matters. His angel.)</p>
<p>Things have changed since the failed apocalypse - Armageddon’t, Armageddidn’t, Apocaloops, they went through a veritable smorgasbord of monikers that day at the Ritz, and nearly as many bottles of champagne, relieved and relaxed and exultant with it. For one thing, there’s no pressure, no panic, no creeping anxiety; Crowley, for the first time in his very, very long life, finds himself absolutely content. Hell is no longer looking over his shoulder - Aziraphale secured them at least a few good centuries of non-intervention from that quarter - and given how the archangels had danced back in terror at the culmination of Aziraphale’s ‘punishment’, well, Crowley’s pretty certain none of the Heavenly sort are likely to come knocking any time soon. It’s just the two of them, now. Their own side, whatever they want.</p>
<p>Whatever they want has turned out to be…a lot.</p>
<p>The hand-holding started at the Ritz, but that puts a vagueness on it - <em>Aziraphale</em> started the hand-holding, at the Ritz, reaching across during their little brainstorming session and tucking his fingers into the loose curl of Crowley’s hand. Crowley, drunk on victory and champagne and safety and bold with it, had tilted his wrist and spread his fingers wide in invitation, and Aziraphale’s fingers had slotted into the empty spaces perfectly, as if built to fit. The angel’s hand had been perfect, warm and soft and solid in his, and he hadn’t ever wanted to let go. Incredibly, amazingly, miraculously, he hadn’t had to; when the check came, Crowley scrawled an even more illegible than usual signature on the receipt slip with his left, simply to avoid losing the angel’s hand, and they’d held hands the entire walk to the shop, and not once did Aziraphale even so much as twitch his fingers in protest.</p>
<p>Indeed, the only thing Aziraphale’s left hand did, entwined with Crowley’s back in the comfortingly familiar walls of a resurrected bookshop, was tug the demon closer, so the angel could kiss him. It had been a small thing, soft and cautious, careful, but not hesitant - Aziraphale knew what he wanted, and what he was offering, and his only concern had been whether or not they were both on the same page. Instead of answering with the voice lodged somewhere in his throat, Crowley had kissed him back, more cautious and less soft, trying to communicate with something other than the words his brain refused to offer.</p>
<p>And that had opened up a whole lot of options Crowley hadn’t even dared hope were on the table. A <em>lot</em> of options.</p>
<p>Aziraphale has always enjoyed his moments of solitude, though, and Crowley is wary of taking up too much of the angel’s time. It wouldn’t do to have him get fed up with the demon’s presence just when Crowley’s finally gotten everything he’s ever wanted - more, more than everything he’s ever wanted, the past few weeks have been beyond even his wildest dreams - so he’s careful, and he’s cautious, and he times his outings appropriately to prevent wearing out his now extended welcome.</p>
<p>Or he <em>would</em>, except…</p>
<p>“Going out, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley pivots to him with a smile that’s just shy of giddy. <em>Dearest</em>. It flows from the angel’s lips like a dozen other endearments, simple and steady and somehow familiar, despite being so new. </p>
<p>“Well, y- ’s not important,” he answers, smile slipping into something closer to fond, and maybe a little (a lot) besotted. “If you have something in mind.”</p>
<p>“You did mention those lovely cooking shows,” Aziraphale prompts, his eyes twinkling, and Crowley tangles his fingers in the offered hand and lets the angel lead him deeper into the shop.</p><hr/>
<p>The second time it happens, he has a genuine plan and reasoning, not just a vague feeling. Despite the bliss of the past week, he wants to do something special for Aziraphale, wants to bring a smile to his face. Not, mind, that there’s been any shortage of angelic smiles recently, but Crowley doesn’t want to lose his touch. Plus, a few hours off getting everything together for the sort of romantic gesture he has in mind will give Aziraphale some time to luxuriate in a quiet shop. Perhaps with a book or two, or a cup of tea, do his taxes. The sort of simple solitude Crowley’s presence would only interrupt.</p>
<p>He’s pulled on his jacket and is about to pluck his glasses off the table, where they’ve sat unused for nearly three days, when Aziraphale comes around the corner with a stack of books in hand and stops short.</p>
<p>“Oh, are you - are you going?”</p>
<p>There’s a note in his voice that immediately drops Crowley’s stomach to his toes. Just a hint of a quaver, the slightest moue of disappointment on his lips, and Crowley is ready to grovel for forgiveness. It’s a minor miracle that his voice is steady when he answers. “Not particularly,” he hedges, as if that’s at all a sensible response to the question. “Just was - why, do you…?”</p>
<p>His gesture is a vague, directionless thing, but Aziraphale adjusts the books in his hands as if in answer. “I was hoping you might like to help me reorganize some things. It’s alright if you’re busy, darling, I won’t stop you -”</p>
<p><em>Darling</em>. He’s a gooey mess of a demon, insides gone soft and hot at a single endearment. If Aziraphale wants help reshelving books, well, he clearly doesn’t want to be alone right now, does he? It’s not overstaying a welcome if you’re being useful. If you’re wanted.</p>
<p>“’Course,” Crowley says, plucking the top three tomes off the pile and smiling. “Point the way.”</p><hr/>
<p>The third time, it catches Crowley by surprise. He’s nearly halfway out the door to go get takeaway - Thai, a perennial favorite - when Aziraphale calls, “Crowley?”</p>
<p>“Angel?” He calls back, nonplussed.</p>
<p>“Was that the shop door?”</p>
<p>Crowley looks at the doorknob in his hand like it’s somehow foreign, and closes the door with a tinkle of the bell. “I was - takeaway?”</p>
<p>“Oh,” comes the reply, surprised and a little put out. “I thought - no matter.”</p>
<p>“Thought what?”</p>
<p>“Just - that service you were telling me about the other day.” Aziraphale looks up from his desk as Crowley rounds the corner of a bookshelf, smiles gently. “I thought - you were so proud, dearest, I thought perhaps we might give it a try?”</p>
<p>And despite the fact that Aziraphale has never before shown a single interest in the usefulness of a mobile phone, and discussed no plans to procure one for himself, and the estimated delivery time is nearly two hours away (three, if you count the time it takes them to finalize the order), Crowley walks Aziraphale through the entire process, glowing under the angel’s regard.</p>
<p>Nevermind that he has already ordered delivery for them both - through a variety of apps - more than twenty times in the past month, and Aziraphale knows it.</p><hr/>
<p>The next dozen times go roughly the same - Crowley, planning to edge out of the shop for an hour or three, let the angel stretch his wings and settle in and unwind from constant demonic presence, nearly out the door, is interrupted by some errand or the other for the angel. They reorganize what must be the entire book collection, twice; shuffle the prodigious number of tea varietals into some semblance of order in the cabinet; redesign the layout of both the shop proper and the flat upstairs, and spend three days twitching furniture into new places, only to reset the entire downstairs exactly the way it had been. The upstairs flat becomes remarkably more spacious as they cart boxes of books and trinkets down to find homes on newly rearranged shelves. Aziraphale peers over his shoulder while placing delivery orders, but leaves Crowley to do the actual ordering. Alternatively, they set out together, take up a corner booth or a table for two or two close-tucked stools at the bar, holding hands all the while.</p>
<p>It’s bliss, but Crowley is starting to worry. It’s been nearly two months now since he’s given Aziraphale space to himself, and while the angel isn’t complaining - hasn’t made a single noise of protest - Crowley is very, very anxious at the idea of overstaying his welcome. He’s starting to get twitchy about it.</p>
<p>So it is that early one morning, when the sky threatens rain and the wind carries the promise of coming winter, he shrugs on his jacket and decides to go get the twitchy out by gluing coins to the sidewalks around Piccadilly Circus. It’s the sort of harmless fun that won’t upset Aziraphale too terribly, and will take a few hours, enough that he’ll get the worst of the prickling out from under his skin.</p>
<p>He’s plucking his glasses off their new perch by the till when Aziraphale steps close and presses a soft kiss to the side of Crowley’s neck. “You smell like mischief today, dear,” he murmurs, inhaling deeply and pressing a second soft kiss to the same spot as Crowley’s cheekbones start to flame.</p>
<p>“Yeah?” He attempts a suave, disaffected tone - and fails miserably, not that Aziraphale will call him on it. “Are you planning to do something about it?”</p>
<p>The look Aziraphale shoots him from under lowered lashes is teasing, coy; Crowley quirks a brow at him, but it’s hard to keep his composure under a look like that. The heat pools in his cheeks, spirals into his chest and gut, drips along his limbs until his fingers and toes are practically tingling with it. Aziraphale is smiling, still, sly and slow.</p>
<p>“Oh, I just might,” he murmurs, and stretches up to plant a scorching kiss on Crowley’s lips, and he is ablaze with it, lost and drowning in this new sensation, this new experience, his angel gone playful and provocative, and Crowley’s plans to glue coins to the sidewalks at Piccadilly Circus go up like the proverbial smoke coming out his ears.</p><hr/>
<p>It takes another full week before Crowley gets wise.</p>
<p>“Should probably check on the plants today,” he muses, eyeing the Majesty Palm in the corner of Aziraphale’s bedroom. They’d picked it up after clearing out the assortment of boxes the angel had originally had piled in so thick the bed was unreachable; the room is now, arguably, sparse, just the bed and one potted plant. The plant was a compromise; Crowley argued for nothing at all - sometimes wings got involved, and it was nice not to hear shattering when otherwise occupied - but Aziraphale had pouted and insisted on something for a ‘spot of color.’ The Majesty Palm was, well, a majestic tower of greenery, and even Crowley has to admit it looks nice against the soft grey walls and fluttering sheers.</p>
<p>Quietly, where it couldn’t hear him, of course.</p>
<p>“Must you?” Aziraphale asks, that sly smile tilting at his lips again. He reaches across the bed for Crowley, who hasn’t gone far, anyway, and curls his fingers over the sharp edge of one hip. </p>
<p>“Satan only knows what they’ve gotten up to,” he tells the ceiling, determinedly not looking at Aziraphale. If he looks, he knows, he’ll fall right back into the angel’s arms, and that’s another day gone when he should be giving Aziraphale space. Alone time. Breathing room. Something.</p>
<p>Still, he tilts his head back when Aziraphale dusts kisses along his shoulder and up the curve of his neck, lets his eyes flutter closed at the sensation.</p>
<p>“I’m sure they’re fine, love,” Aziraphale murmurs between kisses. “You’ve done such a good job with ours.”</p>
<p>“Mmm.” A shudder ripples through him. <em>Love</em>. <em>Ours</em>. They ricochet around in his chest, pinging against his ribcage and blossoming spots of warmth at every contact, until it’s hard to breathe through the heat.</p>
<p>Or maybe that’s Aziraphale, tracing the edge of his jaw with his teeth.</p>
<p>“They get unruly without supervision,” he manages, trying to focus on something - anything - else, despite how desperately he wants to give in to this feeling, sink into the heat and luxuriate in it for hours. </p>
<p>“Bring them here, then. We could use more color.”</p>
<p>“Don’t -” he bites his lip to keep from shuddering “- don’t want to overcrowd your flat.”</p>
<p>“Our flat,” Aziraphale corrects absently, busy trailing his fingers along Crowley’s ribcage, until the demon traps his hand with long fingers and holds it still against his chest, where his heart beats a rapid tattoo under flushed skin.</p>
<p>Then his brain picks up what his ears heard, and Crowley’s eyes fly open, staring shocked into the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale,” he asks, hesitant. The angel hums against his neck.</p>
<p>“Angel,” he tries again, and some of the shock must have made it into his voice, because Aziraphale pulls back with a questioning sound. Crowley turns, then, finally, tilts his head to meet the angel’s gaze. “Do you - do you want…?”</p>
<p>“I want quite a number of things, Crowley.” Aziraphale laughs, then, eyes gone soft and gentle, and the kiss he brushes against Crowley’s cheek is encouraging. “You’ll need to be more specific, I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>“Leaving,” Crowley blurts, as the pieces start to click into place in his mind. He rolls onto his side, clutching Aziraphale’s trapped hand tighter to his percussive chest. “You want - don’t - leaving. Gone.”</p>
<p>“That’s not a sentence, my love.”</p>
<p>Crowley growls frustration into the pillow, huffs a breath, and tries again. “Do you want me to - leave?”</p>
<p>It’s not quite what he wants to ask; the words twist around in his chest, tangled up tight with hope, and come out mangled somehow, but it’s worth it for the sparkle in his angel’s eye when he replies, “No, darling. That is the absolute last thing I want.”</p>
<p>“So you - the things - and the, the shop, and…” He trails off and brings his free hand to Aziraphale’s face, smoothing over the curve of his cheek, brushing his fingertips through the soft white curls at his ear. It occurs to him now that they have not discussed this. His voice is still lodged in his throat, the words still trapped somewhere in his brain where his voice can’t find them; he answered without them, before, and never bothered to find the outlines of what that answer really meant. “What. What do you want, angel, I need - I need you to - I need to hear it. Please.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale brushes a kiss against Crowley’s wrist and smiles, soft and bright like the dawn, as if he’s been waiting for this.</p>
<p>“I want you to stay,” he answers. “I want you to stay here, with me, forever. I’ve spent so much time without you, my love, so much lost time without you by my side, wishing and hoping and not daring to dream, and now that I have you, I never want to let go. It doesn’t have to be here - we can go anywhere, I will go everywhere with you, if you’ll have me. And I know that you need your own space, and I’ve been terribly selfish lately, interrupting that, but -”</p>
<p>“No,” Crowley interrupts. He shuffles and sits up, feeling this is a conversation best not had prone, and Aziraphale matches him, sheets pooling around their waists as they sit facing each other on the mattress, hands clasped tight together between them. “I wasn’t leaving for me.”</p>
<p>“But -”</p>
<p>“You also need your space, angel, and I know that. And I don’t want to leave you, not even for a minute, but I want you to be happy, and -”</p>
<p>“I <em>am</em> happy.”</p>
<p>The words, so reluctant before, are starting to trickle their way down into his throat and marry themselves to his voice. Crowley’s fingers tremble where they tangle with Aziraphale’s. “It’s - that is. That is the most important thing. You know that, right?”</p>
<p>“I rather think your happiness is equally important,” Aziraphale chides, and Crowley attempts to wave this sentiment away with the jumbled mess of their hands.</p>
<p>“Fine, whatever, but - angel. Humans, they’ve identified this - thing. This period, where everything is new, and exciting, and you want to be up in each other’s business all the time, and it’s great at first and all, but then people get tired of it, and things get awful and awkward, and I don’t - I can’t risk that, Aziraphale. Not with you. I - I love you too much to risk that. So I want to make sure I give you your space when you need it.”</p>
<p>“I love you too, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley flushes under his gaze, as if they haven’t already exchanged love confessions, as if this is a new admission for either of them. Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “I’m not worried about space yet. I daresay I won’t worry about it for quite some time, either - like I said before, I wasted -”</p>
<p>“<em>We</em> wasted -”</p>
<p>“<em>I</em> wasted so much time,” he barrels on, unperturbed, and Crowley squeezes their fingers together in protest. “And I refuse to waste any more. But I do promise that I’ll tell you if and when I ever need it, provided you’ll do the same.”</p>
<p>“I won’t -” Crowley starts, and this time Aziraphale squeezes in protest, and he huffs out a breath. “Fine, fine. I’ll tell you. <em>If</em> I ever need it, which is the least likely thing in history, by the way, but I will say, if it happens.”</p>
<p>“Good.” Aziraphale brings their joined hands up and dusts a kiss across the knobs of Crowley’s jutting knuckles. “It’s called a honeymoon phase, by the way.”</p>
<p>“It’s - what? No, that’s a marriage thing.”</p>
<p>“Not just, but it does come from that, I believe.”</p>
<p>“That’s - ridiculous. Can’t have a honeymoon without a wedding, that’s - ’s ridiculous, ’s what it is.”</p>
<p>“We can have one, if you’d like,” Aziraphale offers, and Crowley turns a particularly lovely shade of red.</p>
<p>“You - we - <em>angel</em>,” he coughs, sounding strangled. “That’s - you.” He is looking everywhere but at Aziraphale, and his fingers are like vises. The Majesty Palm in the corner gets leveled with a panicked half-glare.</p>
<p>“Of course, it would be mostly a formality,” the angel continues, voice as light as if they were talking about lunch, or the weather, but his eyes sparkle with something like mischief. “I’ve certainly no intention of leaving you in any form, and I rather think we’re married already in all the ways that count.” Crowley makes a strangled vowelless noise at this that sounds an awful lot like <em>ngk</em>. “And weddings are a rather recent human thing, what with the paperwork and the party, and it seems for the most part like an excuse to eat cake and be boisterously happy, and make other people give you gifts, which, while lovely, is hardly necessary for beings like us. But if a wedding is required for us to have a honeymoon phase, well, far be it from me to break the rules.”</p>
<p> Into the gentle silence that follows, Crowley mumbles “…maybe,” cheating his eyes up to Aziraphale’s cautiously. Finding only love there, and happiness, and, fine, a tiny sparkle of mischief, he adds, “I don’t - what you said, angel.”</p>
<p>“Hmm? Which part, darling?”</p>
<p>Oh, Crowley loves him, this magnificent bastard angel; he bats the recent surge of anxiety away under that loving gaze, and answers clearly, speaking past the heart lodged in his throat. “About the married bit - I - you’re right. In all the ways that truly count, we already are.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale practically glows with happiness, and - no, he does, Crowley realizes, just a little, just a shimmering halo of soft light around his softer curves. This time it is Crowley who brings their joined hands up for a kiss, pressing lips to soft angel fingertips for a long moment as he gathers his composure, and his thoughts.</p>
<p>“But maybe - if we can’t have a honeymoon period without a wedding - maybe we can wait a while,” he offers. Aziraphale’s smile melts into soft puzzlement. “Maybe we can cheat the system a little, for now. Since honeymoon periods end, and they have to come after weddings, we can just - just enjoy this, for now, and do - wedding later.”</p>
<p>The softly puzzled smile is just soft, now, as Aziraphale uses their tangled hands to tug Crowley in, tipped forward and unbalanced, until they’re prone again on the mattress, Crowley’s angles slotting perfectly into Aziraphale’s curves, as if built to fit. </p>
<p>“What an excellent idea, my love,” he murmurs, and pulls Crowley in for a kiss.</p>
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